The summer of my sixteenth year, you loved to tell me I was too young, but you still hung around. I spent my days wondering what you were doing and my nights knowing exactly. I was supposed to be somewhere else, anywhere that wasn't with you. Everyone could see what was next; even you knew you'd break my heart.

It wasn't like I hadn't been hurt before, I'd told you about the boy who came before you. By the time I met you I'd forgotten what it was like to feel broken, you were quick to remind me, but I kept coming back for more.

The air is colder now, than those summer nights. All I have left to sustain me is memories.